


This Too, Shall Pass

by Synchron



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Soft Vergil (Devil May Cry), sometimes you just need a hug from a Sparda boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-23 08:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23342173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synchron/pseuds/Synchron
Summary: Sometimes things are a little too much, and that's okay.
Relationships: Vergil (Devil May Cry)/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 136





	This Too, Shall Pass

**Author's Note:**

> I was feeling incredibly anxious about recent RL developments, and because I struggle to put to words how I feel in situations like this, and would also rather do something... more constructive than cry about it (although I did anyway hahaha), I threw this together as a means to just sort of... I don't know, get _something_ out of my system. I kept the situation itself vague, rather than insert my own personal circumstances, in the hope that, in these difficult times, maybe it can help you find a little peace for like 5 minutes.

It's with a slow, downtrodden pace that you climb the steps to Devil May Cry's front door still wearing your work uniform. Where you would normally swing the doors open with enough gusto that they both slam back on their hinges (the glass pane had actually cracked once), today, you press into it with one shoulder and nudge it open, only just wide enough for you to slip through to find a genuinely surprised Vergil at his desk. His feet are propped up onto it, a nasty habit he picked up from Dante, but only ever does whenever his brother isn't around, and when he sees you enter the office, his first reactions are respectively thus: he immediately removes his feet from his desk, and then he glances up at the clock mounted on the far wall.  
  
It's only 2'clock. Far too early for your shift to be over. Yet he gets the feeling he knows why.  
  
An obnoxious creak sounds when his chair scrapes over the hardwood floor, signalling that he's getting up to properly greet you. You pull your tote bag from your shoulder and drop it rather unceremoniously onto one unoccupied corner of his desk, eyes still downcast, but you hear the soft clicking of his shoes against the floor as he steps around his desk to stand before you. You still don't look at him, expression sullen and somehow shamed, but you feel him curl one finger under your chin to gently coax your head up, meeting you halfway with a head tilt of his own until your eyes meet with his inquisitive greys. His hand then drops from your face, ghosts the outline of your arm, and as his hand seeks out your own, you find your fingers automatically, so naturally, open to intertwine with his.  
  
"What happened?" He prompts in a tone of voice that's so disgustingly warm and full of affection that you already feel a wet sheen of tears forming over your eyes. But ever defiant, you knit your brows together, scrunch up your nose, and hold them back. Vergil recognises that look, knows that even though you cry when watching movies that aren't even sad, or videos of animals being rescued, or even when you see someone perform an unprompted act of kindness, you remain adamant in your refusal to cry over your own problems. Over yourself. Even when you really want to.  
  
Even when you probably should.  
  
And all the more when you know you are not alone.  
  
"What  _ hasn't _ happened, Vergil." You mumble, more an idle statement than even a rhetorical question. And even though you're facing him, even though your head is up, your eyes drift to the side, distant and unfocused. This, Vergil allows, if only because you're giving his hand an appreciative squeeze, grasping it tighter - it tells him that you are  _ here _ , and not tucked away within the abyssal whirlpool of your own thoughts. It's such a small gesture, coming from two people who struggle to express themselves, but oftentimes, less is more. "I don't know what's going to happen anymore. I've never been scared like this before." Your other hand falls over his, and that too, you squeeze, your body tensing, fighting that tickle in your nose, and that persistent sting in your eyes. " _ And I'm so fucking scared _ ."  
  
His response is to take half a step towards you, closing the distance between your bodies, gently prying his hand from your tense, trembling fingers. His warmth envelopes you then, sturdy arms finding their usual place around you to usher your smaller frame right into his, shielding you from the prying eyes of the world around you. Even his own. And automatically, you bow your head and nestle into his chest, your own arms weaving around his waist underneath his coat where his soothing minty fragrance coaxes the first quiet sob out of you.  
  
"Things are difficult now." His voice rumbles in his chest, sounding somehow deeper when you're pressed so tightly against him. "And times ahead will be equally so, but this too shall pass. I promise."  
  
He lapses into a gentle silence after that, adjusting the way his hands sit against you to pull you deeper into his embrace, to keep safe the parts of you that are beginning to waver and crumble.  
  
"But for the moment, you are allowed to be weak." Vergil hears you murmur something against him between the sniffles you're still trying to hide from him, but whatever you said is lost when he feels your shoulders begin to quiver. He tilts his head down and presses his lips to the crown of your head, eyes sliding closed so that not even he can see you at your worst. "All that is required of you is to overcome the  _ now _ . And if you must cry for that to happen, then I will shield you from all view until you are strong again.  
  
"And I have faith that you will be."

**Author's Note:**

> Stay safe, everybody. Be strong. 💖


End file.
